


The Sharpest Lives

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, crackfic, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not all in my head. I can't possibly be that lonely. He's real. And he loves me. And we'll live happily ever after, motherfucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharpest Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Give me a shot to remember

My family and doctor told me my best friend isn't real.

Last night, I called him.

“Maybe I’m not real,” He said, “Maybe you aren’t, either.”

Which was very fucking helpful. Not as helpful as the heroin is, anyway, but not much touches drugs anymore. I told him he had to be home tomorrow when I called. He had to answer the phone, or we couldn’t see each other anymore.

Okay. He said. I’ll be here.

***

Brad is everything to me. The way a best friend should, he fills all the gaps.

I thought my search had ended when I found him

But then I couldn’t find my keys.

And the cat ran away.

***

I’m sitting in the psychiatrist’s office with his phone on the desk in front of me. My parents are sitting in overstuffed chairs beside me, their eyes shining with tears because this is oh so fucking sad.

All I have to do is pick up the phone. Dial the number.

***

Brad doesn’t mind if I turn up at his house at four in the morning. It’s been raining so I’m soaked, but I’m so alive that I’m not cold. I pull him outside in just his boxer shorts, his hair a wild mess from where he’s been sleeping. Pillow creases on his face.

Nobody I’ve ever met would just roll their eyes and smile fondly, letting me drag them out into the rain.

Barefoot, he dances with me, asking “What’s gotten into you?”

I smile, “I’m drunk, I suppose.”

I black out, then. I’m not sure what happens, but I wake up in his bed, warm under his clean sheets. I wrap them around my waist and wander out of the bedroom to the living room looking for him.

He’s there on the couch, curled up uncomfortably but sleeping soundly.

His hair’s still wet

And maybe I’m in love

***

Sitting at this guy’s polished desk with everybody’s eyes on me makes me think of being on stage. The pressure. If I fuck up now I lose everything.

It makes me think of late night phone calls to Brad, too. One am and I can’t sleep for crying and for my thoughts that never go away. He’s the only person I’ve spoken to about Mike, that fucking asshole.

Mike, the guitarist, the one who only asked me to join his band because he can’t sing. But he told me he loved me, too, so that made it okay. Even if it was a lie it was easier to live with than the truth.

But Linkin Park proved more popular than he’d ever thought, and being gay isn’t a proven way of boosting record sales. So Mike, he settles down with Anna. And she’s beautiful, so I guess I’m no competition.

I didn’t take it very well. And one night I went out to get drunk. I was going to walk down the street all in black and wait for somebody to come along without their headlights on.

But I met Brad instead, and things changed.

***

Brad let me crash on his couch when I couldn’t go home which was most of the time. I owe my room mate money for drugs, so I steal from his stash and smoke it in the park. Then I go to Brad’s and we stay up all night watching black and white horror movies on his black and white TV.

I tell him “You make my organs slosh around loose.”

It was meant to be romantic. But I had to stop him from dialling nine one one.

We both laughed and he leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. Brad was wild and free, not tied down by a job or a wife. All his money came from some dead relative who is rotting six feet under.

That’s what his kiss tasted like. It tasted like I hadn’t lived. And that being a big famous rock star wasn’t freedom.

I try to tell him that but he just wants to kiss me again, so I let him, pulling him down on top of me. I know we won’t fuck, and that’s okay. That part of me still yearns for Mike anyway.

***

I pick up the phone.

In my head I’m picking up my microphone, I’m stepping out onto the stage.

The dial tone in my ear is the yell of the crowd. The rush of adrenaline.

I dial Brad’s number.

***

I bought Brad a plant once. His apartment was pretty bare if you don’t count his bong, furniture, TV and book shelves full of cult fiction. He grinned when I gave him it and he said he was going to call it Steve.

He carried Steve into the kitchen with me hot on his heels. I sat on his kitchen table whilst he sat Steve in the sink, running the Fawcett carefully to feed it. “The guy at the store,” I said, “He told me that this plant has spores that’ll end disease, war and racism.”

“Oh?” Says Brad, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” I said, “I think I got Jewed.”

Throwing back his head Brad laughs, long and loud. “You know I’m Jewish, right?”

I remember wanting the earth to swallow me there and then. But Brad just said, “Think Steve would fit better in the living room, or the bedroom?” And raised an eyebrow when my blushing cheeks wouldn’t fade.

***

Ever accidentally dialled a wrong number? Or called a really old line that doesn’t connect anymore?

When you do, what you hear straight away instead of the ringing is the recorded voice of a woman saying “The number you have dialled is not in service, please hang up and try again.”

This message plays on loop until you replace the receiver.

Everybody’s eyes turn to me as I hang up and stare at the phone. “He’s probably just moved,” I say, even though I only saw him last night, “He likes to travel.”

They smile at me. The way you would smile at a child who is talking nonsense. I just smile back. And act as if I’m not terrified.

***

“Where do you go all the time, Chester?” My mom asks down the phone. “I’ve been trying to call.”

“I’ve been staying with a friend,” I tell her, “His name is Brad.” Once I’ve opened my mouth I can’t stop talking.

“I’d love to meet him,” She says, “You should invite him to see me and your father.”

I did always mean to. But every time I was around Brad I’d just forget to ask him.

I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. My parents were never interested in meeting him. They just wanted to see what a state I’d gotten myself into. Turns out heroin, dope and coke aren’t good for you.

Go figure.

***

The doctor tells me I need a rest.

I tell him no, I need to go see Brad.

***

I direct my father to Brad’s house. Him and my mother up front, I cast my mind back to family holidays when I was a kid. Stopping for ice cream half way to where-ever-ville. Arguing over the music. And counting cars.

Where we end up at is a wasteland.

There are no houses. It used to be a multiplex cinema, but they knocked it down early last year. Now there’s just nothing.

And I’m trying to come up with excuses in my mind as I stumble from the car and fall to my knees in the dirt.

***

Back at the psychiatrist’s office my parents are signing forms.

I’m thirty. But I’m not of sound mind, apparently. So my signature stands for nothing anymore.

I can’t stop thinking about Brad. And wondering, how will Mike take it when he realises his lead singer will be recording his album from the mental hospital.

And I think of Brad saying “Maybe I’m not real” and then “Maybe you aren’t either.”

And I think that they can lock me up all they like. I’m not really here. This isn’t really happening.

And we will live happily ever after, mother fucker.


End file.
